“Cousins! No, thank you! I should be out of place in the midst of the domestic felicity of strangers.”
“If you won’t go there, you might stop at a pension in Berlin.”
“No, I won’t do that either. I will stay with you.”
“But, dearest Edith, how do you think this could be managed?”
“I will have nothing to do with conventionalities; otherwise life in Germany would be intolerable. I should die of anxiety in a pension, thinking every moment of the dangers to which you are exposed. No, I couldn’t endure that. I have lived through too much—seen too much that is terrible. My nerves would not be strong enough for me to vegetate in a family or a Berlin pension in the midst of the trivialities of everyday life. Have pity on me, and don’t leave me! Your presence is the only effectual medicine for my mind.”
“Ah! dearest Edith, my whole heart is full of you, and I would gladly do as you wish. But every step we take must be practical and judicious. If you say you will stay with me, you must have some idea in your mind. How, then, do you think we can manage to be together? Remember that on my return I shall be an officer on service, and shall have to carry out the orders I receive.”
“I have already thought of a way. Prince Tchajawadse had a page with him; I will be your page.”
“What an absurd idea! Prussian officers don’t take pages with them on active service.”
“Never mind the name. You must have servants, like English officers; I will be your boy.”
“With us soldiers are told off for such duties, my dear Edith.”